


Froth

by yeaka



Category: The Last Unicorn (1982)
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The Lady Amalthea is plagued by nightmares.
Relationships: Prince Lír/Unicorn | Lady Amalthea
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Froth

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Last Unicorn or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Anything at all,” he tells her, simple but earnest, as though he’d fetch the moon out of the sky for her if she wanted it. “All you have to do is ask.” 

His long fingers twist around her own, squeezing once, light and warn—her breath catches, heart racing. It’s the way it was when she first looked around and realized all the others were truly _gone_ , again when Schmendrick freed her from her cage, then when he _trapped her in this body._ The thrill feels different now.

She remembers that she is _trapped_ , that the eyes he’s looking into aren’t truly _hers_. His touch is strangely mesmerizing, but she lets her delicate fingers fall away from his grasp. His gaze flickers down, lips twitching at the corner, but he doesn’t try to hold her again. Instead, he stands there, in the darkened hallway of his father’s crumbling palace, and looks as sad to her as she so often feels. There’s something soothing in that—comfort in his company, though she does want him _happy_. She can’t provide that. She doesn’t speak any of that bittersweet sentiment aloud; words come harder to her in this new form. 

He all but whispers, “ _Tell me_ , my lady. Tell me what you need.”

Amalthea blinks. A cloud must have drifted past the moon, because a little more light slips through the awning, scattering the shadows across his face. There’s something about this man—his countenance, his eyes, the deep scent of him and the tone of his voice— _different_ than the others. A growing part of her is drawn to it. Maybe she does want to tell him—maybe she wants to be near him.

Then a gull cries in the distance, winding down for the night, and she remembers a thousand other sounds—scurrying feet and galloping hooves and the twitter of brightly coloured birds. _Her forest_. She remembers who she is and what she _truly_ wants, and it’s nothing he can give her. 

Her hand lifts to touch her forehead. She can feel the faintest imprint of a scar, fading every day, like the image of her lilac wood. They’ve stopped just outside the room he so graciously gave her, and when she locks away in it, the dreams will come to her again. They won’t be of the trees. She’ll see her cage, the harpy, King Haggard’s laugh, _the red bull_ —

Before she even realizes what she’s saying, she’s asked, “Stay with me.”

“Of course,” he echoes. “I will never leave this castle again, if you wish it—”

“No. Now... through the night...” Her hand falls form her face, drifting to his side. His lips part, brow creased—surprised?—but before he can protest, she begs, “Please.”

Her fingertips brush the back of his hand. His flesh is harder than hers, calloused, _mortal_ ; but there’s comfort in that too. She will die, but so will he, and whatever time they shared will have made it all worthwhile. 

His voice is hoarse when he agrees, “Of course.” 

Amalthea tries to smile. She doesn’t imagine she’s very good at it, but for him, she tries. Then she strolls past him, through the tall oak doors that bar her bedroom. She can hear him follow and close the doors again behind them. Everything in this castle is so _closed off_ , all locked up and shrouded in secrets and dark places. Her bedroom is the same, but it feels less ugly with his tall figure behind her.

There’s nothing else to do, very little to do every day. She heads straight for her bead, climbing onto the soft mattress and sliding gracefully under the sheets, not bothering to change into the slip that Molly made her. As she lays her head on the pillow, she explains to him, “I dream terrible things. Guard me from them, if you can.”

Lír hesitates before he nods. The surprise is back—perhaps he expected something else, but he doesn’t ask for anything, never does aside from her good graces; she can feel that he cares for her, and that care is unconditional. He sheds some of his armour as he comes around the end of the bed, leaving scraps of metal on the cold stone floor. He climbs over to the other side and takes a seat against the headboard. Then he nods to her and promises, “I will do all I can.”

The next smile comes unbidden. She believes him.

She closes her eyes. _Unicorns_ dance behind them, and sleep on its way, but her heart is less empty with Lír beside her, and she has faith that he’ll bring better dreams.


End file.
